


A Taste of Evil

by BloodyAbattoir



Category: Eragon (2006), The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Bad Taste, Breathplay, Choking, F/M, French Kissing, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: Kissing a Shade would be quite an experience, assuming that you survived the encounter.





	A Taste of Evil

**Author's Note:**

> I.... have less than no excuse for this. I literally just wanted some softcore porn with everyone's favourite Spook, but alas, there seems to be a severe lack of OC x Shade content on the interwebs. I distinctly remember being 'privileged' enough to have had the experience of reading several smut stories involving this creep quite a few years ago, before so many websites out there decided to purge mature content...

The first kiss is shy, tentative, a faint brush of your lips against cold, dead flesh. His eyes go wide with shock, and a dozen different emotions flit past his face in a matter of seconds. A terrible thought occurs to you - you have made a dreadful mistake. You probably ought to run now, not that it would do much good. The only way that you would get away is if he decided to allow you to get away. 

You brace yourself for the blow that never comes. 

Clawed hands grab you, one tangling in you hair, yanking your head back almost painfully. The other goes to your hip, pulling you closer. He initiates the second kiss, bruising and forceful. You let out a squeak of shock, unable to do so much as wriggle away from him. You expected to be obliterated for your boldness, killed where you stood. The last thing that you expected were your affections reciprocated in kind. 

The cold radiating off his armor bites through your clothes, chilling you to the bone. Sharp fangs bite down on your lower lip, drawing blood. You cry out, mouth filling with the taste of dirty pennies. Your hands fly out, scrabbling blindly for something to hold onto, something to ground you in this world. 

His tongue is in your mouth, mapping every single centimeter of it, claiming and dominating. Somewhere under the coppery tang of your blood is the flavour of something spicy and fiery and altogether unknown, foreign and enticing, yet somehow exactly like coming home after having been away for a lifetime. 

The taste of him is intoxicating, and you can't get enough, even as teeth click against pointed canines and the hand on your hip squeezes hard enough to leave marks that will linger for weeks to come. Pointed nails prick through the fabric that covers your body, opening up your skin in five tiny holes. Vaguely, you register the sickly crawling feel of your own blood slowly trickling down your leg, staining your attire and making it stick to you uncomfortably. 

It is not enough to distract you, not enough to bother you. You'll deal with it later. Right now, you had more important, more pleasurable matters to attend to. 

When he finally pulls away from you a moment later, you are both gasping for air. Even though he tries to hide it, he's enjoying it almost as much as you are. A needy whimper spills past your lips, causing you to flush. You didn't want it to be over, not now. You weren't ready for it to end; indeed, you needed more of him in the same way that a drug addict needed their next fix. 

He lets out a laugh, high and cold and cruel, and you know that it is directed at you. Suddenly, you are ashamed, embarrassed. You shouldn't have kissed him, and you definitely shouldn't have enjoyed it. This was wrong, wrong, _wrong._

You close your eyes, unwilling to make eye contact. Perhaps if you hold still and remain quiet, he'll leave you alone and forget you exist. The fingers tangled in your hair let go, and it is only then that you feel the pain in your scalp, the burning tension in your neck. 

Finally free to move your head once more, you drop your gaze to the floor, anything to avoid looking at him, anything to avoid further embarrassing yourself. It is only then that you realize that your hands are tangled in the thick fur of his cape, crinkling the material and doubtlessly coating it in sweat. You force yourself to loosen your grip, fingers shaking violently as you step back. The hand that held your hip was still there, resting lightly against you instead of bruising and cutting into you.

You shrink into yourself, suddenly feeling small, a mere ant that could be squashed by a boot. 

One hand grabs your jaw, deceptively gentle, tipping your head up until you were forced to make eye contact. You instantly clamped your eyes shut once more, terror gripping your heart. You know that if he so desired, he could crush your skull, reduce your teeth to powder with ease. You could easily be dead before your body hit the floor, before you could so much as scream. 

"Look at me." He murmurs, voice silky soft and barely above a whisper. There is no looming threat behind it, no rage or violence or demands. Somehow, that scares you more. 

When you finally pry your eyes open, he is staring at you intently. One thumb comes up to trace your lower lip, feather light touches smearing the blood that has gathered there. Your lips part, allowing his finger to slide into your mouth. 

His claw traces a path down your tongue, teasing at the entrance of your throat. You feel yourself start to gag, throat muscles spasming, and you fight it as best as you can. Throwing up now would only ruin the moment, ruin whatever this was, whatever it could be. Your tongue twitches violently against his flesh. It tastes like ashes, like fire burnt out too long.

This entire thing is a perversion of intimacy, a mockery of all of the loving moments normal, human couples shared on a regular basis. Certainly there was no love here, only lust, and even then, that was questionable at best. You stare into his eyes again, and you are floating, drowning in a sea of red. 

"You'll do nicely." He whispers. HIs breath is the wind of a wildfire, crackling against your skin, causing you to shiver. It's at direct odds with his skin, corpse-like in pallor, in texture, in its very temperature. 

Suddenly, his nail is no longer halfway down your throat, testing and teasing at your gag reflex. Instead, you are picked up as if you were nothing more than a child's ragdoll. Your back slams into a wall, knocking the breath out of you and sending pain radiating through your ribs, your spine. Tiny stars dance in front of your eyes, and you know that your back will be an abstract portrait of bruises by this time tomorrow, assuming you survive that long. 

You wrap your arms and legs around him as tightly as you can, pinned like a butterfly on a card between the body of the Shade and the rough stone wall behind you, terrified to fall, or worse, to be left alone. 

He laughs at you again, his hand wrapping around your throat. Blackened claws scrape at your skin as he squeezes and your vision starts to go hazy. Your mind and body are no longer connected, and your world has shrunk down until it is nothing more than the hand around your throat, the wall that digs into your back, and the corrupted sorcerer staring you down like a predator stalking its prey. 

Your mouth opens, guttural sounds escaping your throat, sickly choking noises, but even if you weren't being choked half to death, you didn't think that you would be able to form a single coherent word, let alone an articulate statement. Then, his mouth is covering yours again, rough and claiming, the animalistic nature of the action exposing him as the monster that he is, as opposed to the man that he pretends to be. 

In this very moment, you could die happy, fully content. 

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, dear reader, this is where this lovely little tale must end, as I cannot write sex to save my life. If anyone wants to actually take this on and write something deliciously filthy involving this particular unsightly bastard, I would be eternally grateful.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Feel of Evil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876739) by [Tamina_Belikhov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamina_Belikhov/pseuds/Tamina_Belikhov)


End file.
